Dear diary,
This week, what I already knew has been confirmed. Confirmed like by a professional and everything – although to be fair, I do think her analysis does need some caveats. Let me explain.
The punch line is that I am perfect.
Which, let’s be honest, I have known for YEARS, and my mother has denied in a similar way to the numbers on the scales — by just refusing to look at what is right in front of her nose.
This non-surprising assessment was made by the lady who comes to the yard every now and again to do weird things involving counting our poo and making us stand on very big scales (maybe mother could borrow those ones?). She stated that I am at an ideal weight, am in incredible condition and am perfect in every way. Now here comes the caveat – I think she means I am the ideal weight for the professional athlete that I clearly am, and due to the featherist nature of the top ranks of equine athletes she has wrongly assumed therefore to be this sporty, I must be a thoroughbred. Just one whose legs get cold and who thus is an aficionado of furry leg warmers… Because, let’s be honest, if I was assessed on my true DNA lineage (which to be clear is 99% Clydesdale and not the 50% Clydesdale/50% milkman that mother insinuates), I would be an underweight waif. Needless to say, the blubbership is ignoring the above detailed caveat and waltzing around looking smug, clearly thinking that in terms of horsewomanship, she’s the second coming of whatever deity you believe in. How she can think it’s a good thing that she starves me within an inch of my life, but very obviously herself can’t stray more than 150 yards from the biscuit barrel, is beyond me, but then mothers’ behaviour is beyond most people’s comprehension – as I have said countless times, she very evidently got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking…
After being told I was perfect, instead of being allowed back outside to at least look at the grass that I’m not allowed, I was taken out on our weekly suicide mission by Crazy Boss Lady (CBL) who is now Crazy Self-Employed Lady (CSEL) due to a change in the way the yard is being run. For me and Barbie Boy nothing changes – she just looks after the two of us exclusively, which seems to involve making sure we are lean and mean and spotlessly clean at all times. Already this week I have been bathed within an inch of my life which seems to have been done along the same lines as mother wearing good quality pants when she takes me riding — so as not to embarrass oneself when involved in an accident. I did like to point out that the chances of some life-ending event is much diminished if we would stop going out hacking ALONE and instead either find some other hacking buddy/ritual sacrifice or you know, like stay at home in a field, but yet again I was resolutely ignored. Instead, CSEL, her thighs of steel and lack of self-preservation instincts frog marched me around the local lanes like a large lemming looking for a cliff while I tried to avoid stepping on any grates for fear of falling between the gaps – what with being so slim and all.
I’m off to go and be the poster child for equine perfection while staring wistfully at the grass the weighing woman could have told mother I needed to munch upon. Life sucks harder than a turbo charged leaf blower in reverse gear.
Laters,
Hovis
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